Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [37]
She drew a short, sharp breath and looked past me. "Alais?"
"I had him!" Alais complained. "Or I would have, anyway." Scrambling to her knees, she smacked me hard on the shoulder with the wooden blade of her dagger. "You ruined it, Sidonie!"
"Ah, you weren't even close." I ruffled her hair and gave her a nudge. "Go on to your sister, villain." I watched her flounce her way off the bed. "It's a game," I said to Sidonie. "One we've been playing for days." I rapped my knuckles against the wooden dagger. "See?"
She nodded, slow and wary. "I see. Forgive me, cousin."
"Highness?" one of the guards interjected, sounding nervous. "We've been watching all along. There's been no cause—"
Sidonie held up one hand. "I see," she repeated. "Cousin Imriel, I'm pleased that you are convalescing. Perhaps it would be best if I came another time."
I felt at once tired and sad. "Why would you think it was anything else, Sidonie? Who told you to be afraid of me?"
Alais glanced between us and kept wisely silent.
"Too many," Sidonie murmured. "I'm sorry, Imriel." For a moment, her slender shoulders slumped; with an effort, she squared them and reached out a hand to her sister. "Come, Alais."
I watched them go, two small figures, fair and dark. I wanted to be angry, yet I was not. At that moment, anger seemed too heavy a burden to lift. Their guards trailed after them, casting dubious glances behind at me.
Once they had gone, I packed my things. There was not much—a few items of clothing, including a luxurious robe of deep blue silk that had been the Queen's gift, two books Phèdre had left, and the wooden daggers, the blades chipped and splintered, the hafts polished and smooth. I stroked the worn grain, hearing Alais' giggles echoing in my memory, seeing the look of shock and terror on Sidonie's face.
When I had done, I left my chamber. There was a guard lounging in the hallway outside my door, clad in the blue livery of House Courcel. On the smallest finger of his left hand, he bore a ring of solid silver, a subtle indicator that he was one of the Queen's personal guard. As I emerged, he came to attention with a start. "Your highness! You're not supposed—"
"Yes," I said wearily, cutting him off. "I know. Where are my retainers?"
"The… the Hall of Games," he stammered. "B-but…"
I gave him a long, hard stare. "Take me there."
He obeyed without arguing, escorting me down the long hall with its fretted balustrade and down a broad marble stair to the main floor of the Palace.
The Hall of Games was a vast, bustling space, surrounded by a colonnade for strolling. There were tables reserved for all manner of game-playing and wagering, and other areas for conversing, made intimate with chairs and low couches. Other than the theatre, it was the single largest space within the Palace proper, larger even than the Hall of Audience. It was said that half the business of Terre d'Ange is conducted within its confines.
"Prince Imriel!" The head guardsman saluted me, exchanging a wary look with the guard who accompanied me. "Shouldn't you—"
"Montrève's retainers?" I asked coolly.
He shut his mouth and pointed. Following his finger, I made my way through a host of royal peers toward the Dicers' Corner, Ysandre's guardsman trailing in my wake.
It was a familiar sound; the rattle of shaken dice, the tumble of the cast. All around the world, men dice for pleasure and wager on it. But I used to hear it in the zenana, where the women would consult Kaneka's oracle, to determine when the Mahrkagir would summon them. She used to draw circles in a tray of sand; a day, a week, a month.
Only Phèdre threw all ones, ever.
The sound and the memories it evoked made me unsteady. I'd overtaxed myself, and it had taken its toll. I wobbled, brushing against a tall nobleman clad in a maroon velvet, with golden silk showing in his slashed sleeves. He cast an irritable glance at me, then checked himself, features turning smooth with diplomacy. I knew too well what he saw; me, gaunt and pale, knobby-limbed, my